


Shake It Out

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Costume Parties & Masquerades, F/F, Symbolism, yet another dance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 08:08:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11801940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: In the middle of the room, a figure stands. It's a magnetic pull, Vera finds, when she gravitates towards the stranger in the center. The masked woman crooks her fingers in a “come hither” gesture. Tonight, the staccato beat compels them. She comes to her blind.





	Shake It Out

**Author's Note:**

> The amazingly talented calzona502 on Twitter requested a FT fic to compliment FaTM's "Shake It Out." So, I decided to take a stab at it. This isn't a dream though there's a dream-like vibe to the setting. Enjoy!

> “And it's hard to dance with a devil on your back  
> And given half the chance would I take any of it back  
> It's a fine romance but it's left me so undone  
> It's always darkest before the dawn”
> 
> _Shake It Out_ – Florence + the Machine

When Vera Bennett receives the invitation in the mail atop her copy of the local paper, she reckons it's a sick joke – a stab at her frailty and her desperate, aching pining. She thinks about tossing the piece of parchment into the trash, along with the cards that issue senseless condolences. Instead, the pad of her thumb traces the fine, elegant script that lists a time and place.

No need to RSVP.

Her mind's made up; she'll show no matter what.

The most difficult decision boils down to figuring out what to wear. She has no formal attire; it's few and far in between. An old, pink prom dress rests in the back of her closet, consumed by moths and dust. She never went; Mum refused the meek and modest request.

While on temporary leave, she drives to a boutique she's never been to before, only admired on the outside looking in. This isn't a time to mourn, but a time to begin again.

Inside the store, a sapphire dress calls to her with a slit running up the side, exposing the musculature of her leg. She chooses a shawl to compliment the decision and to cover her shoulders. It brings out the blue in her eyes. At the register, she doesn't look at the price.

It makes her feel bold.

**Powerful.**

Back at home, Vera fusses over her appearance in the mirror. Wonders if the touch of mascara and the splash of blush is too much. She can hear her mother's vagrant accusations of harlot echoing in her skull. She shakes it off, her curls flowing wild and free.

It's another test that Joan Ferguson administers. The typography of the invitation hides both her motive and her handwriting. _Is Vera up to it?_ A scrap of insecurity guides her thoughts; she's left to ruminate in her office. Regardless, she'll prepare for the evening and dress to kill.

With a deep inhale, Vera tries her best to prepare herself for the night's festivities. Her little car takes her to the end game: a lavished mansion with Neo-Romanesque columns. She feels dwarfed by the size when she deposits her chiming keys into the open palm of a valet.

The sky, in all its magnitude, hides their stars. Above, it's a celestial abyss and she's delving deeper into the darkness.

At the door, the butler accepts her invitation. There, her name goes forgotten. Inside, a masquerade ensues. Vera descends the grand staircase, her fingers spidering across the golden, curved railing. A crimson carpet is laid out before her.

The men in the room with their wolfish eyes upon her make her feel uncomfortable. Under their hungry stares, she shrinks back – further into herself, ever the wallflower.

Without a mask, she feels exposed. Vulnerable. Nude despite the dress that clings to her petite, albeit well-defined form. All the players here hide behind such pretty masks: wolves, crows, jesters, harlequins, caricatures of pleasure and pain, dramaturgical expressions.

Behold the hypercritical Leroux _fântome_ fantasy.

The place resembles the inside of an orchid: soft in its charm, but she's trapped by the allure. A mask is sealed to her face, a thumb caressing her trembling, lower lip. The touch is soft, the skin equally so. Vera sighs in a wistful sort of longing. A butterfly mask reveals her open mouth, hiding the rest. At last, the metamorphosis is complete.

A waiter struts by in his tux with a silver platter balanced on the palm of his hand. Faced with another choice: there rests a glass of red and white. Which pill to swallow? She accepts a crystal glass. Vera sips the red that stirs a fire in her heart. A soft sigh consumes her. Her hummingbird heart flutters within her chest.

In the middle of the room, a figure stands. It's a magnetic pull, Vera finds, when she gravitates towards the stranger in the center. The masked woman crooks her fingers in a “come hither” gesture. Tonight, the staccato beat compels them. She comes to her blind.

The Devil's charming in a deep, red suit. The tie matches the color of blood. A scarlet mask, either the Red Death or temptation incarnate, obscures her proud features. Only her lips, swathed in a nude gloss, are shown. She deviates from her signature black.

The suit captures the swell of her hips and the shape of her body quite nicely.

Vera's eyes trace the sly, fox-like curve of her mouth. The circular room entraps them as though this is just another level of Hell. The iron curtain of her hair falls down with a gleaming sheen, silver threaded throughout. It's Joan, arguably Joan, testing her. Like magnets, they fall into place.

Despite the difference in stature, their chests touch. She looks up to the figure with a glint to her shining, diamond eyes. Shyly, but in a bout of newly found confidence, her deft fingers find the tie. She adjusts what could have been crooked from the start though it was not. The Devil raises her up by the wrists, their hands merging as one. As a puppet, she's spun around. She'll be damned if she turns into another bloody pawn. Wearing a grin, Vera breaks free and spins away.

There follows a good-natured chase. Hiding in the crowd, Vera makes it into a game. Reborn as some sort of sprite, she titters and she giggles. Her chestnut curls sail behind her in the wolfish race. That sort of laughter could get you drunk; thus, Joan proceeds with caution, already enamored in her silent, introspective way. She watches Vera launch into a running start, threatening to stumble in her heels. The cape's a tad too theatrical so Joan shakes it off. Folds it in three. Drapes it with a fluid grace over the arm of a velvet chair.

Joan pursues her prey, breaking into an even stride. Languorous movement dictates her actions. Good things come to those who bide their time. She lurks in the shadows. Catches Vera off her guard when she's bouncing amongst a few conversationalists buried in a corner of the room.

Her hand slides down the curve of the mouse's back. The mouse who feels emboldened by this change of self. Now face to face, Vera brings the shawl around the stranger's neck. The scrutiny of a coal-eyed stare threatens to smoke her out. She swears that she sees Joan smile with a hint of teeth. It's a rarity. It's a nice touch.

Empowered, Vera's leg hitches around the woman's hip. Long fingers trace over her calf and wander down her thigh. Beneath the mask, Joan raises a brow. She shivers from the touch that speaks in volumes. They rock together, now unified.

Suddenly, the woman in red lifts her into the air. Whirls her into a hurricane spin. A trust fall exercise occurs in which she falls onto the hand guiding her back, only to have the darker woman pull her towards her again. Here, you can forget yourself if only for a moment.

Maybe it's a dream. Maybe she wants this and all of Heaven too.

But it's real and they're standing here, pretending to be strangers in an equally strange place.

_You've earned this._

The sordid embrace seems to say. Vera's back rubs against Joan's chest. From the warmth, her eyes flutter shut and she purses her mouth. A hand comes to settle on her cheek, slithering down to cup her jawline. Their hips move to the instrumental riot that plays on an antique gramophone.

It's funny. Vera always expected the woman behind her to feel cold. She's anything but.

Until the bitter end, it's a wordless exchange.

"You look good enough to eat."

The husky tenor of her voice has Vera's heart plummeting down into her stomach. Warm breath caresses the shell of her ear. A crescent moon smile is pressed into the column of her neck; a lioness' jaws testing their might. Vera holds her partner by the wrists, their fingers coming together as one.

 


End file.
